A Bitter Pill
by the necronomicon
Summary: we just give, and they take. -drug addiction


a/n: dedicated to light, for patience

* * *

She says, _give me the damn money_, she says. _She _is in the back alley of some ghetto in Castelia City, grimy fingernails holding out five Candies, a pair of nasty shit-smelling Muk oozing around next to her feet. I scan them with my Dex and looky here, she's actually trained them to the mid-fifties without the drugs she's pawning to me right now, metabolic processes normal, no sign of cancerous growth, yep yep yep. Though, they're fucking _Muk_, if they couldn't metabolize a few Candies here and there then there would be something seriously fucked up in their early growth stages - Daddy must've had some big genetic defect, or some shit - but look, it's this girl and her two Muk and she wants money for those little Candies she's got in her hands. Bitch. Fucking bitch. You know, I would be saying to her, in any other scenario, _Gimme the damn Candies and don't make a fuss 'bout it, ya cunt_, but her Muk know Toxic and they've got Poison Jab and Poison Barbs and for me and my Leafeon and Gallade, still gonna be a helluva mess to wade through should I decide to take them by force.

Bitch.

I inwardly suppress the urge to give her the finger, this dumb little filthy tramp girl, or at the very least, roll my eyes in scorn. I reach into my pockets, pull out my wallet, and this tramp girl is eyeing the contents with saliva practically coursing down her pinched little acne-riddled chin in waterfalls. Makes sense, dunnit? Little tramp girl probably is an addict herself to the own drugs she's selling me, even got a mosaic of injection sites all along one dirt-streaked arm, Reshiram and Zekrom be damned that she hasn't gotten an infection yet, given the company she keeps and the place she's working in, but whatever. I'll take what I can get, amirite? I'm right.

"Here you go," I tell her, polite as you can please, 5,000 crisp Poke from some earlier winnings at that hack they call the "Battle Company" - Pops couldn't even stall a lower-echelon Ace if he tried - and she flips through them, gnawing at her already bloodied lower lip with with yellowed buckteeth, before she drops the Candies into my satchel, the wrappers considerably crinkled and sweaty. "Enjoy," she says, grinning in a way she thinks is sexy, but which only increases my revulsion for her.

Alright, screw it, I've got the Candy and I'm out of here, see you, no thank you and your nasty excrement-mon, tramp girl.

.

I go to Join Avenue and make a few deposits, swap out some members of my team. Guillotine, my Gallade, stays; it's quick and agile and, if worst comes to worse, it's tall enough to handle human attackers as compared to regular 'mons. Ever the Leafeon goes, because despite the strong Special Attack and regenerative moves, it's not worth the vast amount of weaknesses a pure Grass-type has. And some of the more prominent dealers are fond of Poisons and Fires, types which Ever doesn't stand a fair chance against, so I'll trade it in for my Metagross, Argentum, instead.

Alex and Alexa, the two twins that came with this particular branch, file away the paperwork and balance my checkbook while I basically fuck around with stats and assess what I'll need to ensure that tonight's exchange goes as planned. I don't have enough money to hire any reliable muscle, and even if I did have money to go that route, there's no telling if someone's made them a better offer and if this is all a setup. I'll forego the grunts for now, until I land a bigger investment.

Gingerly, I unwrap the Candies I got earlier today and place them on my desk, sliding one of them under the magnifying glass. Ho-lee shit. I have to hold back a whistle. This is good stuff, pure and undiluted. Bigger leveling up and stat gains, and less chances of dangerous accumulation from heavy granules clogging up the system.

"Alexa, take one of these and study the formula back in the lab. I want Jenko and Wetherly to come up with a product like this by..." I count the days on my fingers, chewing some gum. "Well, let's call it the middle of next month. Give them a full three weeks to get their work done. Sound alright?"

"Excellent decision, sir," Alexa says, all nice and secretarial, taking away one of the samples and click-clacking away on a pair of ruby-red stilettos. She's pretty. She and her brother are, in general, some of the most jaw-dropping people you'll ever meet, like those fancy porcelain dolls from Lumiose City away in Kalos. Naturally blonde with with dyed turquoise hair, slender physiques, skin as pale as cream, they could probably pass for life-sized versions of the dolls, too. The original manager had a thing for aesthetics. Me, I'm more business-oriented. I don't decorate because it lends the place some inane charm, I do it because it attracts customers, and customers are more willing to pay if the Avenue looks bright and inviting, not dim and darkly light like some brothel. Though there are some people who would be drawn to the latter.

That's simply not the most pragmatic base to build. It's about the money, and also about the image as well; no respectable person would be caught dead in a place that looked like a place for exotic dancers, the kind of place where you can get blowjobs in a fancy room all done up in dark leather and chains. That's not the kind of place that makes a lot of money, unless you can market it well. And that takes risk. So, pragmatism triumphs. And, I've never been that bold, anyway.

Aleron and Rich are waiting for me outside. Aleron's this tall, skinny, Roughneck-looking guy, while Rich's hair is neatly groomed and he's dressed in a lab coat and a blazer, among other things. Both are ex-cons. Both work for me. Aleron grins.

"You got a job for us?"

I lay out my plans for them to deliver two of the remaining samples to a buyer in the high end of nearby Nimbasa, and to extract payment. Good Candy like this doesn't come cheap; that tramp girl didn't know what she had, or she would've held onto it more tightly. She probably that it was diluted. You can't automatically tell the quality of the drug by its outward appearance; they're all neatly packaged, factory-style stuff, until it place it under closer scrutiny. Again, I think, _idiot._

Both of them are willing. They each receive a generous 1,000 Poke for their troubles. As I leave, Alex hands me my coat.

"Thank you," I say.

He doesn't say anything. He and his sister are sworn to keep their silence, and their integrity is very reliable. I like him and Alexa. They know when to shut up, and when to speak up. There's a nice sort of balance between us.

.

The office complex is old and empty and it's never been sold because of purported structural hazards - namely, it's built too close to the sands for anyone to buy it, since the ground's not entirely stable and if it collapses, there goes some millionaire's investments and a big chunk out of some company's stocks.

Hugh Matthias bought it out secretly a few years ago - as in, according to public records, it's still some site lounging around, awaiting demolition which, when brought up, is always subverted by some law or other - and has managed to turn it into a well-oiled machine, a facility that churns out fine-grade Candies and even produces a small amount of the supplements that get sold to the major chain malls, Irons and Proteins and that sort of shit.

He's a playboy, an entrepreneur, and a fucking CEO who makes billions and still has side jobs like this. I especially hate him.

He greets me at the door, two grunts in tuxes gathered close around him and generating an almost palpable aura of cheap cologne. I have Argentum and Guillotine ready, though I have no idea what Hugh's party is, or those of his bodyguards. I'll just bank my hopes on the exchange going smoothly.

"Where's the product?" he asks, and I hand him one of the Candies, as well as thick orange envelope filled with pictures. He pockets the Candy and opens the envelope, smiling softly as he shuffles through the images inside.

"You got rid of them?"

I tell him that I did, and he grins nastily at me, like he's goading me into spilling some truth that I failed and one of them got away or something. That's just Hugh. Clever-faced bastard, he always knows how to get someone's blood riled up. He hates me, too. He also knows that I'm good at what I do and that I wouldn't be so sloppy as to leave any member of the gang he hired me to hit alive. The Krookodiles are a mediocre cartel at best, and I'd had a rather vicious Garchomp and Hydreigon he'd loaned to me that night. Time-locked, of course; they were set to return after a certain period and not come out until he personally reset the timers on their Pokeballs, a precaution in case I tried to make off with anything. I can't use anything from my Championship team because they'd be too easy to recognize, so I usually hunt around with some miscellaneous 'mons and, if it's serious like the hit on the Krookodiles, I borrow. Hugh's a good breeder, and his Dragons are especially rough. Shame, that he's a good programmer as well; not even the twins could crack the antivirus algorithms he built into his expendables.

Hugh eventually nods, knowing that I'm not going to do anything stupid, and one of the grunts produces a suitcase, handing it to me. He recites the code in a low, droning voice, while I enter the numbers and pop it open. Poke, green and crisp, as well as a tinier black box. It's full of Candies.

Yeah, I hate him, but he does deliver.

"Your compensation," Hugh says, and adds, "If you aren't too busy, I could make your night a bit sweeter, for just a little of your time."

I laugh. I tell him, _go ahead._

.

I'm standing knee-deep in the sewers. It's disgusting down here. There's a body in front of me, and one behind me as well - simple grunts posing as workers, nothing more. Guillotine is enough to eliminate them both, a snap of the neck - _blam_, dead.

The parcel that Hugh gave me is deposited safely in a niche gouged in the wall, marked with the numbers 145 in thick black lettering. Guillotine parts the water around us, and I watch the sewage float past, dead-end flotsam destined to run this nasty underground circuit until it gets flushed, which is who-knows-when because this city cares only for the wealthy and disregards the less pressing matters, the sewer and the dirt and the grime. They disregard the alleys and the criminals and me and, I'll admit it, Hugh.

It would be poetically ironic if it weren't so beautiful, their ignorance.

.

Monday, a formula's already been cooked up, batches fired and cooled and packaged. Everyone helps, and the Avenue closes for a day. It's not a huge hit to our revenue, and the manager will overlook it because we're one of the most successful branches. Alex and Alexa handle calls from people like Hugh, and some of the other cartels we do business with. It feels like home, like family, almost, when Mom and the whole neighborhood would have these big potlucks and everyone would bring food - that's what it's like, a weird childhood nostalgia.

Wrappers, sky-blue and pale. The Candy, little amber orbs of goodness, rolled up and crinkled, winking happily under the lights like edible stars. Aleron supervises; we all have a big drink afterward, soda and some beer and Danko, who works the cafe during regular Avenue hours, serves us the good stuff: paninis, steak and eggs, ice cream floats and creme brulee.

Family.

The next day, and the next, and for many months, we'll distribute the product. Hugh will supply some of the raw materials, and we will operate with him, sometimes under him, but always trying to maintain equal footing. He'll swallow us, otherwise. He's uncompromising like that, a real dick at times, but he's true. That's why people are frightened of him, of the look in his eyes; he's prophetic, in that he understands the cruel layers of human nature, and uses them to his advantage. I like to think that I do, as well.

Our product will spread. Across Unova, maybe to other regions. It's not exactly our product, but the way in which we use it, the goals we have in mind when we sell - doesn't desire, in some tiny way, make an object yours? The simple _want _turns a longed-for toy through that department store window into something tangible, something you can hold in your arms and think_ mine. _That's the way in which we operate. We get greedy, we stick our fingers into all the pies that we find, and we take. That childish practice of licking food in order to ensure that others don't lay their hands on it, that's what it all is. Avarice becoming physical.

.

Guillotine ingests the first pill, swallows it. I watch him with my Pokedex, observe, indirectly, the accelerated growth of cells, of aging, of strengthening mental activity. I watch him grow, my Gallade. The number that reads levels dings and he shoots up one, to 78.

I tell him to take that boulder, over there, and destroy it. He just looks at it. Looks at it, and his eyes light up, glowing blue. The boulder splits in half, crumbles to dust that gets blown away by the wind. Didn't even have to move. He just saw, just _imagined_, and it happened.

This is what freedom is, this is liberation. The pill. The drug.

They call it Candy, because it's sweet for a reason.

.

I don't have some deep-seated vendetta against the League, because it's fun. But it gets boring, sometimes.

No one really wants to save the world, if you look deeper. It's pathetic idealism, a farce born of societal views, molding personalities into things they don't want to be. Religions that proclaim abstinence and cleansing of sin, those are as much the tools of dictatorships as are, say, missiles and wars. Pacify the masses, and they will not rebel.

Fuck that.

I like government. I like that it gives people a sense of false security. I like that it makes the dumbasses, the people who squander their money senselessly on debauchery, easier to rip off. I like that it makes the game fun, at times. In fact, I do like a challenge.

I don't hate being Champion. I like the power that comes with it.

What I hate is the monotony.

It's a fact that drug addiction accounts for 35% of deaths each year in Unova alone. The people that have their first sip of alcohol, their first smoke, their first sexual encounter, they can't stop. It's an all-consuming disease, this kind of passion, that is easy for the careless to get lost in, to be drowned in. Sophistication comes from acknowledging the disease of passion, of partaking in small amounts so as not to render oneself a mindless, sensual beast. That would be as bad as being a pacified citizen, living in a tiny sphere of artificial dreams and a meaningless lifestyle.

Up at the League building, standing in the Hall of Fame, it gets to you. Makes you wonder if this is the pinnacle.

It's not, by the way.

There's so much more to life than what they sell you on television; hell, I had a fucking _deity _in my pocket, once, and I was allowed to use it for the sake of 'justice'. Thrills. Lust. Rage. True hedonism, I think, isn't so much of a utopian world as it is an appreciation for the gifts that are already there, the beauty hiding in plain sight. The silver lining, if you will.

Control is essential. Moderation is essential. Pleasure is a chalice to be sipped delicately from, not swigged in one gulp like some fratboy troglodyte. There's a world in that first sip, a universe of possibilities to be opened with the initial step into the dark.

In the public eye, I am but Nate, humble small-town boy, reigning Champion of the Unova League, child prodigy in a line of child prodigies, etcetera. A product, like any other.

Elsewhere, I am a shadow. I am fear. I am the hand that wields the knife. Elsewhere, I am the maker of the products, and people pay to buy them. It's easy to understand, this system. They want, I give. Many of us give, to satisfy the wants of these nameless, faceless customers, these shadow-people, and in turn, we receive pleasure in the form of satisfaction at having done our job. Liberating. Exposing. Enlightening.

So there will be casualties, untrained, unbridled men and women who cannot rein in the desire. That's a fact that we can't change. We're the shapers of the world, but we aren't gods. We just give, and they take. They are happy, and so are we.

It's not an especially bitter pill to swallow.


End file.
